


Unbidden

by LumosLyra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Foreign Language, Mutual Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Tattoos, probation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/pseuds/LumosLyra
Summary: After accidentally attending a foreign language class at the community centre, Hermione returns without realizing the profound effect it will have on her life.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger
Comments: 33
Kudos: 185
Collections: Magic Begins From Within - A Dumbledore's Armada Flash Fest Challenge





	Unbidden

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Magic_Begins_From_Within](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Magic_Begins_From_Within) collection. 



> Written for the Dumbledore's Armada Flash-Fiction challenge hosted by TakingFlight28 and Kiwi, "Magic Begins From Within" using the prompt: Learning a new language.

The steady beat of her rapid pulse rushing through her ears drowned out the world around them as nimble fingers brushed a curl away from her face. The backs of his knuckles trailed over her cheeks, reverently tracing the line of her freckles before skating over her ear to sink into her curls. His grip on her hip tightened and he brought their bodies together, his thigh slipping between her legs and pressing her back against the frame of the door. 

He viewed her with significance, dark gaze lit as if she was something inherently precious to him. Her lips parted with the realization that perhaps, she  _ was, _ and she took the opportunity to close the last remaining distance between them. Warmth spread through her, filling every hidden crevice of her body until she was uncertain where she ended and he began. 

His kiss was tentative and sweet but with each new brush of his lips, each gentle swipe of his tongue, a quiet flame lit within her. She moved, hands smoothing over the dark fabric of his shirt until her forearms pressed against the taught muscles of his back and the inky cloth was twisted in her fingers. 

The rushed drive of his hips against hers sent a frisson of pleasure through her body. She could feel him, impossibly hard and thick against her thigh, and she pressed back tentatively, desperately seeking a friction she hadn’t known she needed until that moment. She fell pliant beneath him, surrendering to the growing intensity of each touch he bestowed, each subtle movement made with purpose. 

“Not like this.” 

She whimpered, the soft, needy sound tumbling over her lips as he drew back. The separation of his mouth from hers was agonizing and she tried to draw him back, hands flying to his bearded jaw and urging him forward. Tattooed fingers curled around her wrists, and his head turned, pressing a kiss to her open palm before drawing her hands away from his face. The cool metal of his signet ring felt like ice against her palm and she avoided his gaze, tilting her head and staring off into the distance at a vague amalgamation of colours as her mind whirled. 

She never expected him, the reformed Death Eater teaching Russian language classes to muggles at the community centre on Tuesday evenings. She’d come armed with a bag of yarn and several types of knitting needles, having mixed up the timetables, expecting to learn how to knit something beyond a hat and had been too embarrassed to leave when she realized her mistake. She studiously took notes, jotting down key phrases and information on the grammatical structure of the language as if she were any other student and when she sheepishly met his gaze, recognition passed between them. 

He looked different than the half-crazed man who’d cursed her all those years ago in the Department of Mysteries. He was tall and well-dressed with inky bursts of colour flowing from beneath the rolled sleeves of his dress-shirt, obscuring his tanned skin before fading into subtle swirls of colour along in his hands and fingers. She wanted to examine his arms, find out the secrets hidden in the swirls of colour, hoping meaning lay within. His dark hair was swept back and well kept, beard trimmed and brows heavy. Still, the stiffness of his posture and intensity in his gaze was present, even after these years. 

With a slight nod of his head, he acknowledged her and continued with the lesson, as if nothing had passed between them. Hermione felt something ignite within her, and for the next three months, she didn’t miss a class. Her desk was piled high with new books on the history of Russia, while primers on the Cyrillic alphabet and principles of grammar littered her coffee table. The way he spoke of his homeland captivated her and suddenly, she was comparing the cost of international portkeys with the price of a flight to Moscow simply to share in his joy. 

For years, she’d felt listless—the world moving on around her while she remained as she was, fighting for the rights of magical creatures in a dead-end job that slowly ate away at her joy. Her friends started families and moved on with their lives, finding success and joy as they thrived in their chosen careers and familial duties, while she felt stuck in the past, tied to the ideals and aspirations of her youth. 

They’d spoken little beyond the questions she asked and the thoughtful responses he gave, but one morning she woke up and realized she wanted more. She knew precious little about Antonin Dolohov, but Hermione Granger was one determined witch. 

He declined when she asked if he’d like to grab coffee, though when she’d brought him a paper cup filled with a dark blend from a nearby cafe, he didn’t put it down the entire lesson. 

When she cornered him after class in an attempt to speak with him about anything other than Russia, he informed her of a prior engagement and slipped out of the room. 

The day she arrived to class early knowing he would be there, he was late, rushing in at the last minute with a wet umbrella and the evidence of rain splattered across his shoulders. 

It all changed when she quietly left behind a carefully folded sheaf of parchment with “ _ I forgive you,” _ written in perfect Russian. A tentative tension bloomed between them and her attraction to the illusive man barreled forth unbidden.

“Look at me, Hermione.” His hand cupped her cheek, plucking her from her memories and drawing her gaze away from the decorated corner of the multipurpose room in the community centre, and back to him. Her disappointment lay exposed between them as she lifted her eyes, bright brown meeting the darkest blue she’d ever seen. 

“I didn’t want to stop, Hermione,” he said, thumb brushing over the curve of her cheek. 

She peered up at him, fingers smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, toying with a button. “Then why did you?” 

He leaned forward, soft lips brushing over her hairline before she felt the solemn rush of a sigh leave his lips. “There’s too much history between us.” 

“There’s barely any history between us,” she muttered, pushing back against his chest. She knew where his mind was—opposite sides of a war, a curse meant maim, the jagged skull and snake hidden between the bursts of colour on his forearm. Years ago that might have mattered, but now they were simply Hermione and Antonin, two people trying to find a little joy in a mundane existence. Even still, she understood his hesitancy, it might not be something he could move past. 

“If you’re not interested, I’ll just…” She turned, intending to move beyond his presence, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll go.” 

His hand caught her wrist, tugging her back into his space and pulling his arms protectively around her, as if she might disappear. “You misunderstand.” 

Against her better judgment, she melted into him, calmed by the scent of expensive cigars and herbs clinging to his shirt. “Then explain, Antonin.” 

“Come to Russia with me.” 

She pulled back, peering up at him with confusion lacing her gaze. “To... Russia.” 

He tucked her back against his chest, the gravity and quiet rumble of his words sending a shiver down her spine. “My probation ended two months ago, and for the first time in nearly fifteen years, I’m free to return home. I was planning on leaving the moment it was up, passing the classes onto a colleague of mine who teaches at Cambridge, but then you kept coming… and I couldn’t leave.” 

She felt him stiffen beneath her, invariably steeling himself for her rejection, but she curled her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and held him close, the weight of his words, his  _ intention, _ seeping into her very essence. She’d felt it too, the subtle pull of her magic towards him, reminding her that her instincts were valid and had rarely led her astray. 

“ _ I’ll come with you _ ,” she said, the syllables of his native language rolling off of her tongue with practised ease. 

His hands swept into her hair and he tugged her to him, the kiss he bestowed searing through her veins and reigniting the embers burning low in her belly. 

She didn’t know what going to Russia with Antonin might bring. It could very well spell despair instead of delight, but for the first time in many years, she was taking a step forward without looking back, the potential for true happiness within her grasp. 

And all because she accidentally decided to learn another language. 


End file.
